


Satin Stitch

by airy_nothing



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airy_nothing/pseuds/airy_nothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine likes needlework, but doesn’t like anyone to know about it—not even Kurt. Set slightly after 3x17 “Dance with Somebody.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satin Stitch

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by poemsingreenink and teabee1968, who noted Blaine's embroidered handkerchief in "Diva." It's not, really, but when does that stop any of us from writing fic?

“Oh you’ve _got_ to be kidding. Blaine Anderson, did your mother actually get your name embroidered on that handkerchief of yours?” 

Blaine looks up from the handkerchief—he’s really just about done battling a cold—to find Kurt open-mouthed and highly amused. With the handkerchief sandwiched between his palms, he pulls it away from his face and looks down where Kurt had noticed the neat, navy blue script: _Blaine._ “Um—” Blaine starts. It’s the end of the day and the hallways are empty. In the distance he can hear the scuffing of sneakers on the polished floors of the gym as basketball practice gets underway. 

“I just—” Kurt says, looking at Blaine fondly. “I think it’s really sweet that she had that done for you.” 

Blaine pockets the handkerchief, smiling. “Yeah. Thanks,” he says, on autopilot, but then pauses and takes the words back. “It wasn’t ‘done,’ actually. I mean, not by a machine. It was done by hand.” He feels stupid splitting hairs, making this discussion longer than it needs to be. Partly he’s defending her. Partly he’s trying to communicate better. _More_. But—that probably only helps if he’s telling the truth, doesn’t it? 

A shadow of something crosses Kurt’s face, a glimmer of uncertainty. He says softly, “Well that’s even more sweet then, isn’t it?” as he touches the small of Blaine’s back, steering him away from the lockers and toward the exit. It’s the weekend, finally—time to go home. 

To one of their homes, at any rate.

At Blaine’s the boys’ belongings are strewn about like a visual timeline. Shoes line up neatly under the coatrack just inside the door, where their jackets hang next to each other; two half-empty glasses of water sit near the kitchen sink, a few shards of ice left unmelted; cookie crumbs lie scattered on the tile. In Blaine’s room the bed is stripped, just as both boys are. The duvet and sheet are tangled on the floor. Even the pillows are tossed about—all of the bedding just gets in the way sometimes—and both boys are spent and trying to muster the energy to get dressed and make things orderly again before his parents get home. 

Kurt is splayed out on his stomach, one arm hanging lazily off the side of the bed. He reaches to the floor for one of the pillows, and is just about to put it in place when something catches his eye and gives him pause. “What’s this?” he asks Blaine, who looks over bleary-eyed but then suddenly alert.

Kurt’s staring at the place on Blaine’s bed sheet where his pillow would normally lie. Because embroidered there is a tiny red heart: 

Blaine’s sitting up now, his own heart pounding. “That’s just . . .” he starts, but doesn’t quite know how to finish. Instead he grabs his t-shirt off the floor and yanks it over his head. 

“I’ve never seen sheets like these before—how adorable!” Kurt exclaims, but then, realizing something, adds, “But _ewww_. Why would your mom buy these? Oh wait! Did she _embroider_ them for you?” His face is wearing an expression between shock and disgust now, as he mutters to himself, “I’ve really misread your mom, haven’t I?” Kurt seems to notice then how naked he still is, because takes the pillow he’s holding and places it over his dick. “She’s . . . Blaine, this is just _weird_ now.” 

Blaine just stares back at him, mouth open. When nothing comes out, Blaine reaches for another article of clothing.

The silence stretches on as Blaine, and then Kurt, search for the rest of their clothes. When Kurt sits on the bed’s edge to work his way back into his jeans, he stops to run his finger back and forth across the tiny heart. “I like how it’s bumpy,” he says quietly. 

Blaine knows he can’t stay silent, and he doesn’t want Kurt to arrange yet another “counseling session” with Miss Pillsbury. Not over this. So Blaine takes a deep, resolute breath. “It’s called satin stitch,” he says, tentatively. “And I like the feel of it, too.” 

Kurt, standing now to button his jeans, smiles some encouragement. “Penny for you thoughts,” he offers.

Blaine crawls slowly across the bed and then sits, legs criss-crossed. He looks down at his lap and says, “I stitched that heart. And the handkerchief.” Then he looks up at Kurt, that single admission giving him the bit of courage he needs. “Just a minute,” he announces, then jumps off the bed to rummage through his closet. If he’s going to do this, he may as well go back to the start. 

He comes back with a wide, shallow box to find Kurt putting the pillows atop the duvet, having finished remaking the bed. Blaine sets the box in the center and sits, inviting Kurt to do the same.

“So,” Blaine starts. “Do you remember when I told you about what happened to me? At that dance a long time ago?” He pauses then, because aside from telling Kurt that he was beaten up, he’d never really elaborated. It had seemed . . . rude, somehow, when Kurt had been dealing with Karofsky and _death threats._ Kurt had needed support, not a battle scar competition. “They broke my leg,” he says now, because he needs to. Kurt blinks, and Blaine can see his boyfriend’s eyes start to glisten. 

“It’s okay,” he assures Kurt. “But it’s just—I had a lot of _time_ with nothing to do. Turns out you can only watch so many movies, or I dunno, read so much online.” He quirks his eyebrows and adds, “By the way, that’s about the time I learned a _lot_ about sex. Well, I mean I _watched_ a lot of things.” He’s blushing now, he can tell, but so is Kurt, who laughs.

“My mom suggested I try _making_ something, that it would keep my mind occupied.”

“You’re crafty,” interrupts Kurt. “I know you scrapbook,” he adds. “And . . . there’s the ring.” 

The way Kurt smiles at him, the way he looks at him— _into_ him—Blaine gets lost for a moment in that look, but then latches on to something. “You know I scrapbook?” Blaine asks, surprised. 

“Oh come on, Blaine. What do you think I do in here while you’re in the shower, or downstairs getting a snack or fetching a movie or washing the sheets? Those are _prime_ opportunities to search through all your things,” he deadpans. “Now tell me about your needlework,” he adds. “Because I _really_ need to see what’s in that box.” 

And suddenly Blaine feels a little bit lighter as he lifts the lid. Of course all the sheets of canvas are stacked in order, from his very first attempts to his most recent work. He talks through all the pieces with Kurt, who listens attentively as Blaine shows him his first French knots (which represented pieces of fruit in a tiny brown container he’d basket stitched) and the ferns he’s stitched in different shades of green that his mother would like to frame. The newer work is more modern, featuring more abstract shapes and fashionable colors. And plenty of satin stitch. By the time they get to those Kurt is oohing and aahing, holding the fabric almost reverently. _“Blaine,”_ he says.

When they finish looking through the work, and Kurt has selected a piece he likes, one that he plans to frame and hang in his own bedroom, he asks the question Blaine’s been dreading since they’d talked about the handkerchief. “But why?” Kurt asks gently. “Why wouldn’t you share this with me?”

Blaine pushes the box aside and takes Kurt’s hands in his. “I—” he begins, not trusting himself to find the words. _Alpha Gay_ looms in his mind, though, a comment that had really stung, and he can’t help but think of all the ways he’s encroached on Kurt’s _territory_ , for lack of a better word—with Tony, with the choir room, with McKinley itself. Is that a pattern? And what happens when that pattern breaks, when Kurt is gone? He can’t seem to push these needling thoughts away, no matter Kurt’s assurances. So he says, “I dunno” and “I feel kind of stupid now, actually.” But then he’s pulled into a tight hug, and given kisses on the back of his neck, and he’s happy to at least share this one thing. 

Of course, Blaine doesn’t tell Kurt yet about the _other_ box in the closet, the one that has all the crochet amigurumi. It’s full of cute bunnies but fantastic things, too, like zombies and even a vampire queen. And he’s no idea what Kurt will make of a tiny crochet Cthulhu. Maybe someday he’ll share his other interests (he’s yet to tell Kurt about the comic books and downplays his superhero obsession like a boss), but for now, this feels like quite enough.

On Sunday morning, after he meets Kurt at the Lima Bean for coffee, he walks his boyfriend out to his car to pull something from the trunk. It’s a sheet set for Kurt’s bed, with a tiny heart in satin stitch, just like his, for underneath the pillow. And for underneath the _other_ pillow, appropriately he thinks, is the name in navy blue script: _Blaine_. 


End file.
